Mercy
by TrylonAndPerisphere
Summary: There are many things Rachel Duncan likes to do with men. She likes to own them, to make them bend, to watch them snarl back inside their cages, trying to exude, assert their masculinity with growls and postures, while still completely tamed and controlled by her power. But, there are other things Rachel wants.


**New short OB fic. AU, inspired by some disturbing/yowza/amazeballs Prophine/ProCophine fic I've read on tumblr by novelconcepts and prolethean and decided to approach from a different angle, and, of course, the video for Chinatown's "Pénélope." (Look it up.)  
Caution for mild D/s. **

Her appointment is late. Maybe Rachel Duncan should have expected it in this case. Nonetheless, she doesn't like it.

She doesn't like it in a very different way than she usually dislikes tardiness. She is not angered, does not begin formulating ways to coldly get under the skin of her visitor, to make her sorry. Instead, she faintly vibrates. She can't be sure if it's from anticipation or nervousness, but she can only explore either possibility in little glimpses into her own mind, savouring the feelings like the pain of exploring a bad tooth with one's tongue, and then finding it too intense to go on.

There is a buzz on her intercom.

"Ms. Duncan, your six o'clock is here."

She says nothing, but presses the button to open the doors. This is her private office, separate from the public one furnished by her corporate employer, separate from the space she calls, with little attachment, home. She takes one last look around the room to be sure everything is pristine, white, spotless.

The door clicks open and a woman enters. She is tall, she is cool. She is dressed like a French movie star of earlier days, in a wrapped coat with a high collar now hiding her face, now framing it. Rachel notes the sleek hat with an actual veil on it, the ruby gloss lips. The woman takes a slow look around, one hand in pocket, the other holding what appears to be an old, leather doctor's bag.

Rachel speaks.

"Mistress Beraud, I have been—"

"Don't speak," the woman cuts in, sharp, commanding. Rachel swallows her words.

The taller woman sizes her up with a glance up and down her body, and seems to find her wanting.

"You will not speak unless I tell you, and you are given permission. Yes or no, do you understand?"

Her voice is low, imperious, but rounded with a soft, French accent that makes Rachel feel heat flash through her, makes her quicker to accede.

"Yes, Mistress," Rachel answers softly, the words barely falling past her lips, her fingers still on the desk she'd been rounding, now being used partially as grounding, partially as support.

"Very good,_ lavette_. And the safe word is?"

"Mercy, Mistress."

"That will do. Now be silent. Be still."

Mistress Beraud slowly goes about placing her bag down and taking off her hat, revealing the severe blonde bun and intimidatingly beautiful face underneath. She places the hat on the shelf that has been provided just for her use. She slowly opens her coat — button, button, belt, button, button, button — and slides it off gracefully, hanging it on the rack that is also a special addition for her visit. She does not take off her gloves, which are long — past the elbows — and black, tightly accenting the shape of her long, elegant fingers and arms. She stands for a moment, straight, one leg tilted out to show its curve, and Rachel knows it is both to consider her next action — consider Rachel, herself — and to be looked at.

And Rachel does look. Even though she keeps as still as she can, her lips parted, her breaths coming shallow and quick. Mistress Beraud is someone you _have_ to look at. Her tight, leather bustier pushes up and out breasts that are not overly large, but no doubt perky and sensitive. Her long, lean torso spreads to delicious, curving hips. And those legs. Rachel's tongue moves in her mouth as she pans down those _extensive_ legs, accented by the garters, the black silk hose with the back seam, and those deadly black stiletto heels.

The Mistress' eyes narrow.

"You think you can stand there, looking at me like that? You're not worthy. Turn your eyes away."

Rachel quickly looks down, both thrilled and disappointed. She's almost itching, now, desire rippling under her skin.

There are many things Rachel Duncan likes to do with men. She likes to own them, to make them bend, to watch them snarl back inside their cages, trying to exude, assert their masculinity with growls and postures, while still completely tamed and controlled by her power. She likes to fuck them, silently, all for herself, whether they like it or not, rewarding them with small privileges if they make her come, punishing them by not allowing them to come whenever it strikes her fancy. She likes these men, her men, to desire her, need her against their own wills, to feel it with self-loathing until she allows them, bit by bit, some selfhood with each task performed perfectly, a gift that is easily taken away.

But, there are other things Rachel wants. Sometimes she wants a woman. A woman who will hate her for it, who will not want her back. Sometimes, she wants to feel what hurts her. She wants to feel low, to get it _out_ so she can, afterwards, be in control again. And Mistress Beraud knows that. There have been communications, both delicate and explicit. There have been background checks — even though Rachel did not read them, not wanting to know the details, the everyday facts that might make this dominatrix more of a real woman to her, someone with feelings and _messes_. The Mistress, however, refused to sign a contract. And that was actually the last thing that made Rachel pick her. This Mistress would not bow her head.

"Take off your jacket and your blouse," Beraud commands, and Rachel does it quickly, eagerly. The Mistress has pulled out a fine, thin riding crop from her bag, and she rolls it in her fingers as she walks to Rachel, appraises her. She takes Rachel in from several angles, beside her, behind her, her mouth forming a speculative moue. She sighs forcefully, derisively, through her nose.

"And the brassiere. Now."

Rachel closes her eyes, licking her lips. It's like she feels Mistress Beraud's voice, her breath, sliding around her, down the back of her neck and over her shoulders, to bare Rachel's chest even before she can undo the clasp of her bra. Rachel completes the motions, and allows the bra to slide off her. Her nipples hit the climate-controlled air, now suddenly cold to her flushing skin, and they stiffen.

The Mistress steps closer behind her. Rachel actually can feel her breath on her neck. She feels the tip of the crop as it touches her between her shoulder blades, slides by millimeters down her spine and hooks in the back waistline of her skirt, causing the zipper to groan a little, _click-click_. Rachel is holding her breath now, a sheen of sweat glossing her forehead, causing a few strands of her precise, severely-cut hair to stick to her skin.

"That skirt looks very tailored, very _expensive,_" the Mistress notes, low-voiced, breath in Rachel's ear. The crop slips deeper, to touch the cleavage of Rachel's buttocks, then angles back to give the skirt a sudden yank.

"I don't give a shit," the Mistress growls. "You're going to destroy it. Rip it off, until you are naked before me."

Rachel is moving before she even knows it, hands trembling, searching her desk until she finds something, a letter opener, and she forces it into the seam of the skirt below the waistline. She _tears_ at the skirt, panting, the high-quality silk and wool material putting up strong resistance, until she is gasping and pushing with the point of the opener into the fabric and down, rending it, as the back of the skirt hugs her bottom, digs into her lower back. She lets out a grunt of frustration, of effort, arms straining, hands scrabbling, pulling until the fabric near her hip shreds, and finally she hears the zipper give way with a series of pops. She flings the remains of the skirt away and grabs her hose and panties — so pretty, picked for this day — and pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, stepping out of her shoes and bending her knees into a squat to remove the whole mess from her feet.

She is about to straighten when the crop is pressed into the top of her shoulder.

"Stay down," the Mistress commands, and Rachel does. "Kneel," and Rachel does that, also.

Beraud again circles her, this time coming to a stop in front of her, over her, the mysterious meeting her of her legs and her crotch maddeningly close to Rachel's face. Rachel feels her nostrils flaring, imagining being closer, the smell of the warm fabric stretched over Beraud's…

"You have been a very bad girl, _lavette,_" her Mistress tells her. "You must be punished. You will do everything I say, you _nothing_, you _worthless little girl, _until I am satisfied. You will not touch me, and I will not touch you, but you will feel me through my commands, through my crop, through my whip, and you will grovel."

Beraud snaps the crop up to land with a sharp tap under Rachel's chin, then pulls it up further to tilt Rachel's head back. Her eyes are coloured a warm hazel-brown, but they sear like dry ice into Rachel's mind.

"If you do everything exactly as I tell you, I may deem you worthy to put over my knee. I may even," she considers, her voice somewhere between a purr and a growl, "allow you to touch yourself, after I leave. If you do not..." she taps the crop just hard enough to barely sting against Rachel's cheek, "you get _nothing_ — the nothing that you deserve." She pushes Rachel's head roughly back down.

Rachel's cunning, her effortless manipulation, her power and control, have all left the building. The vibrating inside her feels almost like a prayer, here on her knees, looking at the feet of a goddess, blessed by the push of her strong, judging hand. Her fingers clench, arms forcing them to remain at her sides, and her mouth is open in a silent moan. She feels the tell-tale itch of a droplet sliding down the folds of her sex. She is so. Wet.

"Do you understand? Answer me, pig!"

Rachel snaps her head back, blurts out with a strange amalgam of fear and abandon, of tension and release.

"Yes, Mistress!" she yells.

At precisely seven o'clock, Delphine Cormier, professional alias Mistress Beraud, steps smartly out of the building. A black sedan, windows tinted, is waiting for her.

When the car pulls up to the nondescript, industrial brick façade of the dungeon, Delphine sees a familiar red Jeep parked at the curb in front. She then sees her Cosima, her love, talking to Lady Velvet, who is laughing through her cigarette smoke, an almost matronly puffy coat pulled over her boots and corset. Cosima turns as Delphine closes the sedan's door, and turns up the wattage of that wicked grin to her full smile, full of delight and incandescent. Her arms spread.

"There's my girl," she says.

Delphine steps lightly to her, her own delighted smile erasing any defenses, any sternness. They kiss, softly, warmly, as only Cosima is allowed to kiss her. Lady Velvet, AKA Rae-Rae, finishes her cigarette and tosses them a wave, heading back into the dungeon.

"Have a good night, you two."

Cosima opens the Jeep door and holds out a steadying hand, even though they both know Delphine could probably scale mountains sure-footedly in her towering heels. Delphine steps up and in.

Cosima slides through that familiar dance of hand and leg to put the engine into gear, and they jerk into traffic, a bit too quickly and with a bit less room than Delphine would like, but it hasn't killed them, yet.

"So, how did it go with the new client? The rich chick, right?" Cosima's eyebrow is cocked. It's somewhat unusual to have a female call, and more so to book an appointment outside the dungeon.

Delphine removes her hat and works on her gloves, finger by finger. Her shoulders form a mild shrug.

"It was fine. Money on the table, no rules broken. She was very eager, this one. It ran… very deep." She massages the back of her neck, her eyebrows pulling together.

"You know, it was funny. There was something about her, maybe around the mouth or the shape of her face, that reminded me a bit of you."

"Oh, really?" Cosima inquires, her expression turning devilish. "Did that make you hot?"

Delphine throws a sideways glance and a smirk at her long-time girlfriend. "No, of course not. It was really more creepy than anything."

Cosima chuckles, and Delphine leans over, planting a lingering kiss on her cheek, leaving behind a sheer, red lip print as she nuzzles her ear, her hand gliding slowly over Cosima's knee.

"I'm going to take a shower when we get home," Delphine tells her, "and then dinner, and then maybe you can help me work out some of the tension of a long work week." She runs her tongue along the rim of her lover's ear.

"I'm trying to drive, here," Cosima smiles, then her voice dips low. "You'd better watch out, missy, or I'm going to put you over my knee."

Delphine shivers, pressing her thighs together. Her day is behind her. It is so nice to have an evening off.


End file.
